Malign
by Fading Grace
Summary: Mal breaks his arm, so Simon has to take care of him.


This is a gift for the younger sister of one of my readers, because she suggested these two some umpteen bajillion years ago when I wrote the first half of this.

So, Mimi. Have patience.

* * *

Mal sighed, and then winced. His ribs hurt. A large amount of him hurt, oddly enough.

A rough piece of gauze pressed into the back of his head, gentle enough not to hurt the goose-egg that had developed in the last fifteen minutes.

Simon took his uninjured wrist and guided it to the bandage, making it clear that he should hold it there. Mal winced again; when he held it himself, it dragged on the bruise and felt like sandpaper, ripping up the scab that was trying to dry.

Simon muttered to himself about being glad they hadn't brought River out with them. And then he asked Mal to tell him, again, what exactly had happened.

Mal knew he had a concussion, knew that Simon was keeping him awake. He stumbled through the story anyway.

A deal gone bad. This was an organization, not some small-town smuggling job. They had more firepower than expected. Had made allusions to what would happen to any feminine members of the crew if their captain didn't accept a lower cut of the pay. Had run Mal over when he tried to stand in the way of folks robbing him.

"They ran you over," Simon echoed, then, with a neutral voice that suggested he didn't believe a word.

"Clipped me. In the side." He tried to move his arm to point to the place without thinking.

It didn't work. It did the opposite of working. It felt like his arm tore off at the elbow.

Simon clucking his tongue, like a mother might. "Don't move."

"Did they teach you that bit of sparkly in med school, Doc?" Mal growled with a singular bitterness.

"No." Two hard plastic bricks slammed down on either side of his arm, and Simon started pulling at fractured bones to line them up. "I learned it in grammar school. It's a wonder you weren't disarticulated."

"Wasn't what now?"

"Nevermind," Simon said, and clucked his tongue again.

Mal, strung out on too much pain and not enough pain meds, tried to fight off the urge to pass out. By talking. "That's so _campy_. You know that's campy. You can't not. Can you?"

"You can stop holding your head, now, the blood has coagulated enough." Simon stopped putting his arm aright and stared at him a moment. "For such a grit-and-grimace character, you have next to no survival instincts." He plucked at a broken thumb, and it cracked back into the joint with a vicious glee. "No matter what you say, you find a way to instigate something."

Talking was a bad idea, Mal would concede that, but it's not like he _always_ started trouble.

…Exactly…

"Spoke against my crew. Couldn't let 'em go peaceful," Mal insisted petulantly. His teeth slammed shut as he bit back a less-than-stoic yelp.

The patient, determined pressure on his arm disappeared, and then Simon rose into Mal's otherwise uninterrupted view of the infirmary's ceiling. Something room-temperature and plastic pushed at Mal's clenched-together teeth.

"Open," Simon ordered imperiously. "You'll bite your own tongue off."

Mal glared, but telling Simon who was Captain here would require a bit more capitulation than he was prepared for.

Simon's eyelids fluttered as he obviously fought the urge to roll his eyes. His tone became patient, like he was back in his internship during the stint in pediatrics. "Your teeth are sharp enough. There is a significant artery in your tongue, which if severed could _either_ drown you _or _force me to stitch it back together. No matter what, my efforts to keep you from going lame would be massively hindered." He paused for effect, and then his tone became light. "Although, acute exsanguination would cause spectacular spasms. Might be worth a show."

Mal opened up, resenting the subservience but accepting the invasion into his mouth. It was a crescent, fitting easily around upper and lower teeth and holding his tongue back.

Simon dropped the mocking demeanor and turned back to his work.

Mal reached the threshold where all the constant tweakings blurred into one continuous ache, and could therefore be ignored.

And then Simon's hand touched his mostly-intact shoulder. His breath hissed in through his teeth. "_Tzao gao_. I wish I had some anesthetic."

Mal's stomach was already clenching with anxiety when Simon came back into sight. "Sorry, Mal," he said softly and earnestly. "This is going to hurt."

Mal blinked, and tried to speak through the mouthguard. And then he just closed his eyes and nodded, and prepared for more pain.

Simon counted to three, and then pulled.

Mal bore down, muscles naturally trying to pull the bones into place right up until the familiar white lights started glimmering around the edges of his view pf the inside of his eyelids.

And then something popped and his arm straightened and the white lights drained away. He subsided into ache again, but that was looking much preferable to the little ordeal just gone past.

Simon opened one eye with his fingers and shone an archaic penlight in to rouse the bats. "No, Captain. I have to think of your concussion. You can't sleep yet."

Mal pushed and shifted and tongued the plastic in his mouth until it came out, and said calmly, "To Hell. With that."

Simon frowned down at him. Mal knew that he wouldn't be able to keep his eye open by himself.

The doctor shook his head and went to the radio. "I've fixed him up. That's all I can do," he announced to the rest of the crew.

He glanced back at Mal, and shook his head again. "He needs to be kept awake. Who is the least busy?"

Kaylee waved back that she could be finished in ten minutes or so, but Inara was still planetside with a client and all the others were either flying something large or helping stow the recovered goods.

River's voice drifted in. "I'll come. The fox is just off-balance because he's nocturnal. There's no night in the black, so he doesn't ever sleep. That's all."

Simon gave the speaker an odd look, and then held down the switch for the micro. "Thanks, Meimei. You're a help."

Mal grumbled, "If she tries to keep me awake by fiddlin' with my sore parts-"

Simon turned red. "Mal! Don't – She wouldn't do that, she understands how to deal with patients. Just don't couch it in those terms!"

Mal chuckled, and Simon disappeared. Probably to get Mal's blood out of his clothes.

So, Mal buckled down for a long twenty-four hours of River's helpful illogics.

* * *

That's all, really. Plotless Simon-forced-by-circumstances-to-fuss-about-Mal. And the obligatory Mal/River moment, that's just me bleeding through the fourth wall. 


End file.
